Anna Head School - Nods and Becks Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

 - Class of 1920

Page 16 of 74


Anna Head School - Nods and Becks Yearbook (Berkeley, CA) online yearbook collection, 1920 Edition, Page 16 of 74
Page 16 of 74

Anna Head School - Nods and Becks Yearbook (Berkeley, CA) online yearbook collection, 1920 Edition, Page 15
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Anna Head School - Nods and Becks Yearbook (Berkeley, CA) online yearbook collection, 1920 Edition, Page 17
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Page 16 text:

A III b 1 1 1 o II ' Jlic ) ' A is rising Exquisite in her freshness, Unbounded in her promise. Inspired, to her. a welcoming (jrl(l Sends up an ardent greeting — SparkHng brilliance from a tree-girt pool, Steaming incense from the pulsing earth. Fragrance from the blossoms, dewj- fresh. And matchless greens, golds, rose and blues, .Ml winged things, their clarity of song. And I. rejoicing, asjfiring. hoiiing. Pledge infinite, unselfish l(i e. This is the Dawn. The wearied Day now seeks her sapphire couch. Clad in garments tattered, soiled. She falters from the pathless fields of heaven. To her. a sighing world Sends up a low farewell — Shades lustre from a tree-girt pool. l) ing fragrance from the bruised blossoms. And matchless colors, soft, subdued. Dull crimson, purples, silver, greys ; The winged creatures, drowsy, brooding cries. And I, hopes dimmed and aspirations lost. Remember only ain and finite lo e. This is the Xight. Tomorrow brings another Dawn. Ruth .McBkide ' 2U. 11- ' J

Page 15 text:

W ' h) ' — er — yes, but — er — let ' s not talk about that, he said with pretended modesty, and was sure lie saw a smile lurking behind her words as she asked. And your yacht? Sold, he said shortly. Sold it? Oh, what a shame ! What of all those splendid dogs and horses? Sold ' em, too, said West, wishing Cousin Bill hadn ' t so many things to be accounted for. But your last no el? Though you sold it, you surely can tell me about it. His latest novel ! West Winked. Confound Cousin Bill! It was then in the silence that followed West heard someone behind him, and he did what he never would have done if his nerves were not like needle-points. He jumped from his chair and wheeled about. There was nothing behind him but a doorway covered with portieres. He turned apologetically to the girl. She. too, had risen and her face had gone deathly pale. She stood staring at the doorway in a panicky sort of way. ' est turned again and as he did so, the draft from the window moved the portieres backward, revealing six pairs of slippers, kid, satin, and suede, dainty feminine slippers holding six pairs of feet supporting slender ankles. It was more than West could stand. He stepped forward and drew the portieres aside. There was silence for a moment, then a silvery peal of laughter, and West turned to see the girl doubled up on the divan convulsed with laughter. Her outburst was echoed by six other shouts of merriment, and into the room tumbled six girls. est stared at them blankly as they chatted and laughed hysterically. All he could make of the chaos was, Oh, it was wonderful, Mignon ! or How did you do it? until he began to fear for his sanity. Finally the girl got up and came to him. I truly owe you an explanation, she said. You see, we, she indicted the other girls, all belong to a class in short-story writing. Today one of the girls at our meeting announced her intention of going abroad for inspiration. Then the argument arose as to why she need go away for inspiration. Then the bet was made that from here to the station and back one of us could find a story — and — well — I — you — I fell, finished ' est, laughingly. Yes, she agreed, but it was an awfully good fall. You played your part splendidly. I suppose now I owe you an explanation, said ' est, but, he glanced at the other girls, if I m.a}- call some e ening I could explain my part in detail. May I? Yes, granted Mignon, tomorrow evening. The next evening — oh, but what ' s the use. I ' m not going to bore you with the same old story of a side veranda, a June evening, a silver moon and the odor of damp roses, for — well it all happened in the usual way. But I will tell you that Thurston won his fift}- dollars and that two can hunt stories better than one. Row1 ' :na .Sticirly ' 21.

Page 17 text:

Life ' s Loveliness HiFE has loveliness to sell, and with surprise we find among her wares objects so familiar that we have never thought of them as beautiful. In a crisp, stiff, white calling-card, in a newly wa»shed window, in a deep- grained, spicy-smelling board — in these things there is beauty. There is magic, too, in glistening, foaming soapsuds, in the far-off sound of a train-whistle, and in the blossom of a weed, all glistening with dew. The woods after a rain, the fresh, warm earth, sweet-smelling green things, the drip-drop of rain off the leaves, the flutter of little bird wings drying themselves, and the brush of dew against your face from glancing boughs — in these things there is beautv enough to make your heart jump with the pure joy of being alive. An autumn day is filled with lo eliness. You can hear it in the drowsy humming of the big. yellow bee and hear it in the crack of grasshoppers as they jump. (3n the street the elms send a dotted, swaying pattern of shade and sunshine. In the gutters there are rustling, crackling heaps of leaves, all red, and brown, and golden. A little gust of wind sends one scudding across the walk. The picket fence casts long shadows sprawling on the grass and you can smell the pungent odor of burning autumn leaxes, and see the blue smoke curl up into the golden boughs abo ' e. H. zi:l Davis ' 20. OHE greatest beauty the world has is the beauty of nature, but the casual observer passes it by. He sees in green grass and meadow flowers only feed for careless cattle to trample and destroy ; not the beauty of slender grass-blades and delicately fragrant, many-hued blossoms. Tumbling streams and mighty ri ers are nothing more than water. The great oceans are expanses of needless water that offer an incon enience in reaching other countries ; not wide-flung masses of wonder and grandeur. Fields of wa ing yellow wheat merely mean grain for the hand of the reaper and food in plenty for the winter; not a moving mass of golden beauty. How many of us miss the beauty of a tiny verdant valley hemmed in by marching hills, or of a single majestic peak losing its snow) ' spire in a billowing cloud? You sa ' the desert is not beautiful, that it is a barren waste of sand, but have you ever been out on the desert at night when the full orange moon hangs high in the deep blue sky? The most sordid surroundings can be transformed into beauty if we will but search for it under the surface. hat we do not look for, we do not see. Eloise McCle. ' We ' 20. [ 1- ]

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